Broken Open
by paperstorm
Summary: Part of my Deleted Scenes series. The tag for Fresh Blood, 3x7. Wincest.


**Contains dialogue from the episode 'Fresh Blood', it belongs to Eric Kripke and Sera Gamble.**

**Part of my Deleted Scenes series. Full list of fics in reading order available on my profile page. They will make more sense if read in order. :)**

* * *

Dean peeks briefly over the top of the mattresses they set up to block the windows, while Sam stomps the heel of his boot into their cell phones. Making a snap decision that he's not going to just sit here and wait for Gordon to show up and turn them into sushi, Dean walks over to where they dropped their duffels and says, "Sammy, stay here."

"What? Where're you goin' now?" Sam asks, all wide eyes and little brother impetuousness.

Dean pulls the Colt and a case of silver bullets out of his bag. "I'm going after Gordon."

Sam's eyes widen further. "What?"

"Yeah, you heard me."

"Well, not alone you're not!"

Dean loads a few bullets into the cylinder and then snaps it closed. "Sam, I don't need you to sign me a permission slip, okay? He's after you, not me, and he's turbo-charged. I want you to stay outta harm's way. I'll take care of it."

"Well Dean, you're not going by yourself!" Sam says incredulously. "You're gonna get yourself killed!"

Dean shrugs. "Just another day at the office. It's a massively dangerous day at the office," he adds, grinning.

"So, what, you're the guy with nothing to lose now, huh? Oh wait, let me guess, because, uh, it's because you're already dead, right?" Sam asks sarcastically.

"If the shoe fits," Dean answers unfeelingly. And hey, Sam isn't wrong.

"You know what, man, I'm sick and tired of your whole _stupid_ kamikaze trip."

"Whoa, whoa, kamikaze? I'm more like a ninja," Dean jokes.

"That's not funny," Sam says flatly.

Dean grins and chants his set-in-stone response; "It's a little funny."

"No, it's not!"

"What d'you want me to do, Sam, huh? Sit around all day writin' sad poems about how I'm gonna die?" Dean grinds out. He grabs a small stack of papers and a pen from the counter beside Sam and pretends to start writing. "You know what, I got one. Let's see, what rhymes with 'shut up, Sam'?"

Sam smacks the pages out of his hand and they fall to the floor. "Dude. Drop the attitude, Dean. Quit turning everything into a punch-line. And you know something else? Stop trying to act like you're not afraid!"

"I'm not."

"You're lying!" Sam insists. "And you may as well drop it, 'cause I can see right through you."

"You got no idea what you're talking about." Dean tells him in annoyance, even though he knows it's a lie as much as Sam does.

"Yeah, I do. You're scared, Dean. You're scared because your year is running out, and you're still going to Hell, and you're freaked."

"And how do you know that?" Dean asks derisively.

"Because I _know_ you!"

"Really."

"Yeah, because I've been following you around my entire life! I mean, I've been looking up to you since I was four, Dean! Studying you, trying to be just like my big brother. So, yeah I know you! Better than anyone else in the entire world. And this is exactly how you act when you're terrified." Sam pauses and takes a breath. "And, I mean, I can't blame you. It's just …"

Dean wants nothing more than to just end the conversation and never talk about this again. But the broken look on Sam's face is almost more than he can handle. "What?" he asks softly.

"It's just I wish you would drop the show and be my brother again. 'Cause …" Sam's eyes fill with tears and he swallows down whatever else he was about to say. "Just 'cause."

Dean wishes he knew what to say to that. And he wishes he knew_ how_ to drop the show and be Sam's brother again. He has no idea. Masking his emotions is second nature. He doesn't even realize he's doing it most of the time anymore; it's just become part of who he is. And he's always tried so hard to be strong, for Sam. The problem is, he knows what Sam was going to say before he changed his mind. He wants Dean to stop acting the way Dean's been acting because his time _is_ running out, and Sam just wants to hold on to as much of Dean as he still has left. Dean would feel the same way if their situations were reversed.

"Alright, we'll hole up," he says finally. "Cover our scent so he can't track us, wait the night out here."

Sam still looks like he's going to cry when Dean looks up at him, but he nods anyway and mumbles, "Thanks."

Dean nods back, swallowing over the lump in his throat that always forms whenever Sam looks like that. Which, lately, is all the damn time and it's more than Dean can take. He walks over toward where the empty bed frames still sit on the floor, intending to use one to jam the door, but he can't resist reaching out and patting Sam's chest as he passes. Sam grabs Dean's hand, though, and doesn't let him move away. He squeezes it, and when Dean looks back over his shoulder, Sam's right there looking back at him, tears in his almond-shaped eyes that have maybe never looked bluer than they do right now.

"Sammy," Dean says, because he doesn't know what else to say, and Sam nods shortly and looks down at the floor, blinking the tears away.

"I know."

"For what it's worth, I'll try to be your brother again," Dean offers quietly, and Sam manages a small, sad smile.

"It's worth more than you know," he answers, still not looking at Dean and frowning deeply despite his words.

Dean leans in just the foot it takes to get him close enough to press a kiss to the corner of Sam's mouth. Sam chases after him when he pulls away, sealing their lips back together for a minute or two. Dean slides his hand over Sam's cheek and then he goes back to picking up the wooden bed frame. It's both amazing and horrible, how much a simple kiss from Sam can mean sometimes. It makes Dean feel way too many things to process all at once, so he pushes them all away. On second thought, he's not sure he can spend the whole night alone with Sam in this room. Not yet, anyway. He needs a few minutes to get his head back on straight first.

"I'll be back soon, okay?" he says softly, holding up a hand when Sam inhales sharply and opens his mouth to protest. "I'm not going after Gordon, I swear. Just gonna go get a new phone in case we need to call Bobby or something. Maybe some food so we don't have to resort to eating the soap in the middle of the night."

Sam still doesn't look convinced, so Dean puts on his most honest expression and says, "Sam, I promise, okay? I'll be back."

"Be _careful_," is all Sam says in response, and Dean nods and walks out the door before he has a chance to convince himself not to.

* * *

"You had to do it. He was a monster."

He's holding Sam's cut up hands under the faucet, gently washing away the blood until the water runs clear. Then he rubs some soap into the shallow wounds, wincing sympathetically as Sam hisses, and then rinses his palms clean again. When he's done, Sam wets a wad of toilet paper and wipes at the drying blood that's caking around his nose and lips.

"I'm aware of that," he says flatly. "Doesn't change anything. I would've done it even if he wasn't."

"You would?"

"I meant what I said. He didn't give us a choice. It was self-defense. If I hadn't killed him, he would'a killed me."

Dean knows what Sam said, but it still surprises him. He doesn't say anything, though, just waits for Sam to finish cleaning himself up and then lets Sam rub a wet washcloth over Dean's neck where Gordon sunk his teeth into the skin and muscle. It's going to hurt for the next few days, probably, but Sam says it isn't that deep, so it's better than it could've been. Gordon could have _turned_ him, and then Sam would've had to kill him and that would've been just epically bad. All things considered, Dean got off lucky. Well, lucky except for the dead, hollow look in Sam's eyes as he tosses the bloody cloth into the bathtub and wanders back into the main room, pushing the bed frame Dean used as an extra lock back to the middle of the room where it was before and attempting to maneuver the box spring back onto it.

Dean helps him, together they get the two beds reassembled enough that hopefully the guy who owns this shithole won't give their license plate number to the cops. And then Sam sits down on the edge of the bed closest to where he's standing, looking lost and empty and it cuts Dean up inside to see him like that. Regardless of what Sam says, having to kill Gordon like that _did_ affect him. Neither of them has ever had to kill a monster that used to be a person they knew before. And it's not like either of them really needed anything more to deal with right now. Dean crawls across the bed and shifts around until he can settle down on the mattress behind Sam, his legs framing Sam's hips. He slides his arms around Sam's waist and when Sam doesn't flinch or pull away, Dean kisses his neck gently.

"What're you doing?" Sam asks after a moment.

Dean shrugs and keeps kissing up toward Sam's ear.

"Dean."

"What?" Dean sighs. "I'm just … tryin' to make you feel better."

"Why?"

Dean blinks. "Why? 'Cause … 'cause you're my brother and you're upset?"

"I'm fine."

"You don't have to be."

"Yeah, I do."

"Why, because I would be?"

Sam stands up and walks a few steps away. "This has nothing to do with you."

"I kinda think it does!" Dean argues. "Seems like … sometimes I think you think there's something wrong with you for feeling things that I don't. And there isn't, Sammy. One of the best things about you is how much you care, how big that heart of yours is. I don't want you to change that. Not ever. And just for the record, I care too, alright? I mean, Gordon was a giant pain in our asses. I don't care that he's dead. But I hated having to kill that girl. Lucy. The one who didn't know what she was."

Sam doesn't answer. He just frowns and crosses his arms over his chest protectively and looks away. Dean can't remember the last time Sam was this closed off, and he really doesn't know what to do about it.

"I guess … we should just get some sleep and then head out in the morning. Unless, do you feel like … doing something else?" Dean asks. Usually he's scarily in tune with what Sam's thinking and feeling, but right now he can't tell at all, and he doesn't want to just roll over and go to sleep if Sam needs him.

"Does 'something else' mean fooling around?" Sam asks, an unamused look on his face.

"No, that's … no," Dean says quickly. "That isn't what I meant. We just got our asses kicked, I don't – I mean, unless you want to …" He really, _really_ hates not being able to tell what going on in Sam's head.

"I …" Sam sighs. "Not really. You?"

Dean shakes his head, and Sam laughs a little.

"That's a first."

Dean smiles in spite of himself. "Probably is, yeah."

As soon as the smile brightens Sam's face, it's gone again, and he goes right back to looking sad and empty and a whole bunch of other things that make Dean ache inside – even more because he doesn't know how to make it better this time. Sam pulls off his dirty clothes slowly and Dean does the same, stripping down to his t-shirt and boxers and then getting back into the bed. Sam gets into the other bed, though, and Dean has to clench his jaw to keep inside how much that stings.

"You don't have to do that," he says quietly. "You can … I mean, I don't mind. If you want." He trails off before he manages to get the rest of the words out, but Sam seems to understand anyway.

"I know you're not really into it," he answers, "especially when there isn't sex involved first." His voice is soft but emotionless, eyes focused on a spot on the floor and not meeting Dean's. There's _distance_ between them right now, more than just the couple feet of physical space that separate them, and Dean hates it. Hates it so much that he doesn't care if fixing it breaks his no-chick-flick-moments rule.

"C'mon." He pulls back the blanket and jerks his head toward the spot next to him where Sam should be. Sam still looks hesitant, but he doesn't argue. He just gets up and climbs into the bed with Dean, and lets Dean pull him in close. Even still, nothing is really fixed. Dean's time is still running out, and there still probably isn't anything either of them can do about it. Sam still needs Dean to admit how scared he is about it, and Dean still can't. He can't even admit it to _himself_, let alone to his little brother who he's supposed to be strong for. But somehow, in the way Sam rests his head on Dean's shoulder and slides his arm across Dean's stomach and the smell of Sam's hair and the warmth radiating from his body, things are just a little bit better.

* * *

Sam grabs a couple beers out of the cooler and then he closes it and sits down on it, twisting the top off one of the bottles and handing it to Dean. "Here you go."

"Thanks," Dean says as he takes it.

"You figure out what's making that rattle?"

"Not yet. Gimme a box wrench, would you?"

"Yeah." Sam reaches into the toolbox and hands Dean the wrench, and Dean thanks him again.

Just as Dean's about to attach the wrench to the bolt he thinks is loose, something occurs to him and he stops. "Sam."

"Wrong one?" Sam asks.

"No, no, no, c'mere for a second."

Sam stands up and walks over. "Yeah?"

"This rattle could be a couple'a things," Dean says. "I'm thinkin' it's an out of tune carb."

"Okay."

Dean leans down back over the hood. "See this thing? It's your valve cover. Inside are all the parts that are on the head. Hand me that socket wrench."

Sam does, and Dean takes it.

"Alright, you with me so far?"

"Yeah, uh, valve cover covers the heads."

Dean nods. "Very good. Now, this is your intake manifold, okay? On top of it …"

He pauses, waiting to see if Sam remembers the first time Dean tried to teach him how the Impala works, when Sam was maybe fifteen, and after a moment Sam smiles and says, "It's uh … a carburetor."

"Carburetor. Very good," Dean repeats with a smile.

"What's with the auto shop?" Sam asks warily.

Dean spins the socket wrench in his hands and holds it out for Sam.

"What, you don't mean you want –?"

"Yeah, I do. You fix it."

Sam laughs as he says, "Dean, you barely let me drive this thing!"

"Well, it's time. You should know how to fix it. You're gonna need to know these things, for the future." Somehow, Dean manages to keep his voice steady as he says that, although he doesn't miss the way Sam's face falls and his eyes go soft and sad again. Sam doesn't argue, though, he just takes the wrench. "And besides, it's my job, right? Show my little brother the ropes?"

The ghost of something that's almost a smile passes over Sam's features, even as he blinks quickly against sudden wetness in his eyes. It twists something powerful in Dean's chest, but he does his best to ignore it and watches proudly as Sam gets the wrench head over the right spot and starts twisting it like Dean showed him to once, almost ten years ago now. He takes Sam's place on the cooler and takes a sip from his beer as he adds, "Put your shoulder into it."

Sam tunes the whole thing up, with help here and there from Dean, and Dean smiles as he watches him do it, even though it hurts in all kinds of places he didn't know he had that he even _has_ to teach Sam how to do these things. It isn't fair, at all, and Dean has definitely been lying through his teeth these past few months when he said he was fine about what's going to happen to him. There are tears on Sam's face by the time he's done, mixed in with dark brown grease from when he dragged the back of his hand over his cheek, but Dean doesn't say anything about that. This is more than just Sam learning how to service the Impala, and Sam knows it just as much as Dean does. It's more like admitting that Dean really will be gone one day, and that Sam will have to take care of these things on his own. Which, Sam's right, is something Dean's been avoiding doing lately.

"Looks great," he says eventually, bumping Sam's shoulder with his own.

"Yeah," Sam says softly, staring down into the engine like it'll give him answers to questions he can't even bring himself to ask.

"You did good, kiddo," Dean tells him, and Sam says, "Thanks, Dean," and for just a moment, Dean feels like he really is just a guy teaching his kid brother how to fix a car. It's fleeting, it's playing pretend, but it's better than nothing.


End file.
